These minor lapses didn’t keep Tubbo from achieving distinction as a law enforcement officer in Chicago. He was considered the city’s top cop—above the commissioner and the chief of police—and was undoubtedly the most important law enforcement officer in the county. His real claim to fame, however—cemented by various newspaper articles—was as “the world’s richest cop.”
An underpaid public servant could get wealthy, he explained to reporters, by investing wisely on the Chicago Commodity Market.
“It’s two grand, all right,” I said, thumbing through the greenbacks; then I tossed the envelope back on the desk—nearer to myself than Tubbo.
“Would you like to know what that’s for, Nate?”
“I figure you’ll get around to it.”
“We’ve not had many dealings, you and I.”
I’d seen to that: steered Tubbo a wide path.
He went on: “But we’ve had mutual friends, over the years. Frank Nitti said I was his favorite golfing partner.”
“No kidding.”
“None. We used to go down to the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs, together—great golf course. Owney Madden used to join us. You know, I still use the clubs Frank gave me. Gold-plated. Frank was a generous man.”
“The clubs he gave me were solid gold.”
Tubbo frowned—the pouchy eyes seemed hurt, for an instant; then he grinned. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”
“A little. But I agree with you. Frank Nitti was a hell of a guy.”
“He put the word out, you know—no one was to screw with Nate Heller. He liked you. You had his protection.”
“But he’s dead, now. Dead for what—seven years?”
Tubbo raised a plump, jeweled hand as if in benediction. “It still goes—you still benefit from his goodwill. His respect for you.”
“Good to know.” I didn’t mention that Tubbo was referring to the same Outfit guys who had cornered Nitti into suicide.
Captain Gilbert folded his hands on his ample belly. “I don’t see your associate, Mr. Drury, in the office today— or does he have a private office?”
Didn’t Fischetti fill him in? “Bill doesn’t work here anymore, Tub…. Still want to give me the two grand?”
“That’s a token of thanks from certain individuals in return for your cooperation in this laughable ‘crime’ inquiry.”
“Nothing more?”
“It could be considered a down payment. Have you had a falling out with Drury? Was it on bad terms, his parting from your employ?”
“Bill saved my life, once. We’ll always be friends. I just don’t want to have anything to do with his crusade.”
Tubbo twitched a sneer. “Vendetta, you mean.”
“You think he’s singled you out, Tub?”
“Not me, really. Charles Fischetti. Drury’s had a chip on his shoulder, for Charley, ever since Charley beat that gun rap, years ago. Silly damn grudge. Childish. As for me, I’ve always gotten along with Bill. I just ran into him in the Sherman Hotel drugstore, the other day—he plays handball in the gym, there.”
“Really.”
“Yes, and when you see him, tell him I was serious about my offer. It still stands.”
I grinned again—trying to bribe Bill Drury? Who was Tubbo trying to kid—himself? “What offer was that, Tub?”
“After the election, I’ll have an investigator’s slot waiting for him, on the sheriffs department. He’d like to be a cop again, I hear. Well, I’ll make him one.”
“I’ll pass that along. For what good it’ll do.”
He raised a fat finger. “You might advise him to watch the company he’s keeping.”
“What company is that?”
“These reporters. Did you see the
“I skimmed it.”
His eyes tightened. “Your friend—your former employee—was the prime source. And of course he’s still feeding Lait and Mortimer wild stories and exaggerations.”
Jack Lait, a seasoned reporter and veteran of several Chicago papers, was now the editor of the
